Ward knelt in the damp grass and placed both palms against the earth, closing his eyes. He let his magic seep outward to feel how the portal fared. Every day, he was tempted to try and activate it, to visit with Fionn and Oisín, and every day he talked himself out of it, because what if today was the day his warrior came home?
A dozen energies lingered like old fingerprints in this place—Trace’s wild, thunderous magic; Viper’s dark and coiled like a blade held behind the back; his own, braided through it all like thread through fabric. But most of all, the Dolmen itself. It was older than any of them. Older than words. It didn’t ask for protection, but it would accept it.
He exhaled, pulled his backpack off his shoulders, and set to work. The first sigil he drew was one for warding—simple, steady lines traced in salt and set at the northmost point of the stone. He murmured in Old Irish as he worked, grounding the symbol with intention: protection from sight, from reach, from harm.
The second sigil went on the eastern face of the Dolmen—binding. Not to restrict the door, but to bind interference. To ensure that no hand could open what was not meant to beopened. He infused it with his own blood, a single fingertip sliced and pressed into the grooves of the etching. His blood. His promise.
The third, he saved for last.
He stepped back, knelt at the foot of the Dolmen’s shadow, and sketched the sigil of remembrance. A tether to the past, a promise to the future. The lines wove through a symbol for heart, loyalty, and return.
It wasn’t standard spell work. It wasn’t even something he’d been taught. But the magic moved under his skin like it knew what to do. Like it wanted to protect what they’d built—what they’d sacrificed to keep safe, and he’d heeded the call. When it was done, he stood in the center of the clearing with his hands dusted with blood and salt and his heart beating slow and sure. But the air felt steadier. Safer. “I’ll keep watch until they come home,” he said softly.
The distant rumble of tires on gravel pulled Ward out of his thoughts. He’d been crouched beside the Dolmen, his fingers tracing over one of the sigils he’d redrawn that morning. Three days, four reapplications, and a few minor reinforcements. The protections were holding. But he wasn’t. Not really. Not until now as the sound grew louder.
That’s not just one vehicle.
It’s two.
Maybe more.
He stood slowly, brushing the earth off his palms and wiping them on his jeans. His heart started a slow, painful thud behind his ribs—measured and cautious. As he took off at a lope towardthe parking lot just off the access road, he decided hope was a dangerous drug.
The doors of two SUVs opened almost in sync with his arrival. Juice was first out. He scanned the perimeter, his eyes sharp but relaxed. Then Zero, slipping out like a shadow, muttering about air quality and residual ash content. Kaze swung his legs out next, then Trace, who lingered just long enough to check something on his phone. Reaper unfolded from the back seat of the second SUV with a grunt, stretching like he’d been cooped up for days. Then?—
Viper.
His lungs forgot how to function for a full beat as he drank in the sight of those broad shoulders, the military haircut, and that signature unreadable calm that masked the violence underneath. Electric snapped between them the second their eyes locked across the clearing. For a second, nobody moved. Then Ward did. He didn’t run. That wasn’t their style. But he crossed the distance with a purposeful stride that saidminewithout ever needing to say it out loud, and Viper met him halfway. He pulled him into arms that had been missing from his life for far too long.
Ward wrapped his hands in the fabric of Viper’s shirt, clutching the back of his neck and breathing him in like oxygen. Viper’s arms locked tight around his waist, grounding him and anchoring him, as if letting go wasn’t even on the table.
“Hey,” Ward whispered.
“Hey yourself,” Viper murmured.
They didn’t kiss. Not here. Not yet. The others were unloading gear, stretching, pretending not to watch—but the moment was carved out anyway. Private. Unshakable.
“I missed you.” Ward’s heart did a weird thud-thud as it aligned with the one beating in Viper’s chest.
“I know.” Viper’s eyes flicked over his face like a checklist. “I felt it.”
Ward huffed a breath and pressed his forehead to Viper’s. “Welcome home.”
“You kept it safe,” Viper said, glancing over Ward’s shoulder toward the Dolmen. “I could feel that, too.”
“Always.”
Behind them, Reaper cleared his throat none-too-subtly. “If y’all are done eye-fucking, some of us need a shower and a goddamn chair.”
Ward didn’t let go, and neither did Viper, but they laughed, and for the first time in days, it didn’t sound broken.
The cabin smelled like rosemary, garlic, and something warm and starchy by the time the last duffel hit the floor. Ward stirred the pot on the stove with one hand and reached for a folded kitchen towel with the other, flipping it over his shoulder like he owned the place. Which, technically, he didn’t. But Trace had shoved him toward the pantry the second they arrived and muttered something about “you’re the only one who’s not too tired to cook,” so here he was, and honestly? He didn’t mind. The ritual of cooking helped. Chopping. Sautéing. Stirring. Feeding people was as close to peace as he got.
The stew on the stove was thick with root vegetables and seared beef, bubbling softly in the Dutch oven. A tray of biscuits—homemade, thank you very much—rested on the counter under a tea towel. Ward reached for the salad bowl just as the back screen door creaked open.
“You made real food.” Viper crossed the kitchen to claim his lips in a soft, needy kiss.
“Don’t sound so surprised.” Ward grinned at him. “I can read a recipe.”
